Always Something More Beautiful

This time I came to the starting place with my best running shoes, and pure speed held back for the finish, came with only love of the clock and the underfooting and the other runners. Each of us would be testing excellence and endurance in the other, though in the past I’d often veer off to follow some feral distraction down a side path, allowing myself to pursue something odd or beautiful, becoming acquainted with a few of the ways not to blame myself for failing to succeed. I had come to believe what’s beautiful had more to do with daring to take yourself seriously, to stay the course, whatever the course might be. The person in front seemed ready to fade, his long, graceful stride shortening as I came up along his side. I was sure now I’d at least exceed my best time. But the man with the famous final kick already had begun his move.Beautiful, I heard a spectator say, as if something inevitable about to come from nowhere was again on its way.